The Secret

“and the onlooker
—Sylvia Plath

The white goddess—
Is actually a white serpent

Pale white as death—
Pale as a deep throat penis

The moon shines down—
On the graveyard next door

Ted is now nothing more—
That a sad sack of bones

But I knew him well—
At least I kept that much

His big Yorkshire prick—
Pickled in a cute bell jar

The Yew root of my man—
Who I once loved so much

His Mytholmroyd meat—
My haughty male concubine

His Druidic dick speaks—
I’m all greedy séance ears

My black lips obscenely cackle—
My witch’s Trojan rubber lips

The Yew tree next door knows—
It’s root grows outta Ted’s mouth

But I’ve got the rest, honey—
The real formaldehyde fuck

Sliding back Ted’s pouty foreskin—
Assia’s hickie bruise still there

How his sullen, moody 10” boner—
Drove all the women simply mad

Some would faint in the aisles—
During his sexy poetry readings

Others vomiting in the bathroom—
Overcome by his Celtic cockiness

Some said he was a Heathcliff—
Others said he was Jack Palance

Both men and women loved him—
But now I’ve got him all to myself

Nobody knows my secret, dear—
His big-slit thick serpent all mine

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